Into Warm Air
by Bezaliel
Summary: A young Breton orphan, Ysorya, and her twin brother have been trained by birth to assassinate a specific figure. Now that their dark elf master is dead before training has finished, the two set out to the civil-war wracked Skyrim to complete the mission as best they can. Rated M for violence, harsh language, possible sexual situations.
1. Chapter 1

When Ysorya closed her eyes, she could see the ancient Dunmer sitting in the shadows above her, long strands of tangled white hair half covering a wrinkled face in shadows, as if he was watching her with his sightless eyes. _One day you were nothing_ , he told her. _One day you will be nothing_. _Until then, you survive_.

A bump in the road and her brother shifted, muttering in his sleep. He seems like a child again, she thought, though she could barely see his face in the dim light. It had only been two days since they had left their home in Evermore towards the passes along the Druadach Mountains to Morkarth, in Skyrim, and beyond. Two days of noticing the Nord mercenary's occasional glances at her. Two days of Acilius, the caravan owner, and his bitter wit. They should have been well on their way over the mountains hadn't they heard news of Reachmen barring the passes. Instead they skirted north on less-travelled roads towards a few more treacherous passes.

In the morning her brother had scouted ahead on the extra horse, now he fell into exhaustion. She listened to the two men in front bicker endlessly.

"This damned civil war is cutting into my profits," Acilius muttered. "And now dragons. If the Empire knew what it was doing, it'd keep the passes open. They beat the Reachmen before."

"They say there's a Dragonborn, yah? In Skyrim, the first in centuries!" The young Nord rumbled. He had a deep and melodious voice for a Nord of his age. And she had to admit with his long blonde hair, sturdy frame and strong cheekbones he cut a pleasant figure, if only he didn't have the personality of a potato.

Even from the back of the cart, she could feel Acilius glare at the mercenary. "They always say there's some magic hero who will somehow save the day. You live long enough, you'll meet fifty of them or more."

"But still, a Dragonb-"

Acilius cut him off. "Will be worrying about keeping the passes open? If he exists he's probably too busy hunting for some mystic staff sent by the gods or the Daedra or something. He's not going to go kill Stormcloaks or hunt down these 'forswarn' or whatever the Reachmen are calling themselves these days. The only thing you can trust in this world is the blade at your side, and only then if you trust its steel."

"You are a cynical man, Acilius." The Nord pronounced it 'Aseel-yoos'."

"I recommend it highly," he replied. After that Ysorya fell into a fitful, light sleep.

#

She awoke in the morning, bone cold, with vague memories of her brother stealing the blankets. The sun looked like it wanted to rise over the Druadach peaks, who looked like massive shadowy slate giants against a sky full of warm colors. She stretched, self-conscious when she yet again noticed the young Nord glancing at her when he thought she wasn't looking. When they broke their fast, her brother and the Nord said a benediction to the Eight, then went silent and whispered to their own forbidden gods: Tiber Septim for the Nord, obviously, but for her and her brother, any Daedric Prince that would listen, Boethiah first of all, their masters' old favored god, but also Hircine to hunt their enemies, Malakath to protect them now that they had no home, Mephala so their plot would stay hidden until it was too late for the Wizards to know, and Clavicus Vile… just in case.

But they pretended to be honoring the Ninth. And Acilius didn't honor a single one, just waited patiently, with a tired, you-will-know-when-you-get-older look on his face. Two hours later she was still thinking on the Daedra when the cart got stuck in a muddy rut, moments crept upon moments, and the three men put their shoulders into the cart and spent some time arguing about unloading the cart, while Acilus' mare, whom he named Wretched Aia for reasons only known to himself, watched with increasing impatience. She wondered: did the horses have their own set of Daedric Princes, and horsy realms they sat in. Was their a Daedric Prince of this field has too many thistles, a Daedric Prince who sent annoying dogs to horses he disliked, and drove them off based on whatever whim the Prince had for horses he favored? Certainly the mare looked like she would be praying to one if she could. She kept turning her head back, as if to say, this cart ain't goin nowhere. Just unhitch me and let me go graze. Those pretty looking blue mountain flowers look tasty.

By late afternoon they made progress up the mountain, Acilius angry and possibly frightened. "We're going to push through the night. The old nag had a good enough rest. These passes are no good to stop. With any luck we'll see Morkarth with the growing light. Like I said, I know a trader there, and I have connections to the Silverbloods. We just need to get there and we can live quite comfortably for a little while." We, Ysorya thought, meaning him, but she didn't interrupt to say so.

"We're pushing ourselves," her brother said. "And the nights will get cold. We stop now, a fire will keep the animals away, and we can make it over in the early dawn light. We don't need to race the night."

"You don't know this place, kid. Look at the clouds behind you." Both of them turned, but it was dark. No sign of stars to the sky at their backs, but it didn't mean much to Ysorya. Acilius hardened his features. "That's a storm we're racing. Not the night. Now you scout out ahead. Make sure we're not walking into any ambushes. Tolfbjorn, you can rest in the back. When we get over the pass I'll need you well-rested to take over as coachman. Ysorya, sit with me. Your eyes are better than mine in this damned night. Now stop gawping, let's go." He turned behind the coach seat while the Nord dropped down to hop in the back.

"Oh, but my shoulder aches from pulling that wheel," the Nord rumbled miserably. "Stephan," he called to her brother. "Maybe yer sister can rub it for me, so's I can get some sleep?"

She turned to her brother, shaking her head just slightly. But her brother just smirked. "Tolfbjorn, if your shoulder hurts so, my sister will be happy to cut it out. Until then, maybe don't bother her." He turned, pulling the dark cloak over him, and with a wave to her, ran ahead down the track, to where the path hugged the edge of the cliffside down the valley.

They wrapped themselves in the blankets they used to sleep. The two moons, Masser and Secunda, rose in the east over the mountains, bathing the pathway ahead of them in red and white light. Here the snows hadn't yet melted despite the warm days of the past week. Tracks made by horses and men were the only signs anyone traveled across this land. To the north, and up, a wolf howled. No one answered.

#

" _Wake up, girl_ ," the old Dunmer whispered. Her eyes blinked awake. How long had she been sleeping? The cold seemed settled somewhere deep into her bones, the cart making its way across rough terrain. "Where are we?" she asked.

"Not far," said Acilius. "But Stefan should be back by now." She looked down the roadway, which hugged the side of a cliff face. Snow flurries moved in chaotic dances across the way, the little lantern on the corner of the cart giving off only enough light to make the snow look like tiny faeries come to dance.

She pushed up, pulling the thin blanket around her. "S'cold."

"Yeah," Acilius replied. "The storm is coming faster than I predicted." His tone of voice had a leaden quality. Eyes looked hard, mouth tight. The crossbow had moved from behind him to his lap, one bolt at ready. She felt for the blade just at her back. It felt warm to the touch. She hoped not to pull it out into the cold.

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"If the storm hits where we are, it could kill us. We have no cover against the wind or the cold. And if the cold doesn't kill us, one slip of a wheel will do the trick." She must have gasped, because the older man turned to glance at her, faint concern gracing where a cold expression once had set. "There, er, there might be a place we can pack in for the night, around the bend. The track should go up to the plateau. It's the perfect place for a – well, the wind won't be so bad there, at least."

The perfect place for an ambush, she thought. She nodded. Despite the cold, or perhaps because of the cold, weariness was fast taking over. Best she sleep for now, nothing else of use to do. "Well," she murmured, "wake me when we get there."

Acilius grunted an assent, and she closed her eyes. The blanket seemed to pull her down across the cold bench, like sleep was the only thing in the world that could welcome her, as if her dreams was the only place she would ever call home.

"Ysorya, Tolfbjorn!" Acilius hissed, and she blinked, awake. Hadn't she just closed her eyes? Now the rocks rose up dark and shadowy on both sides of cart, the road up a steeper climb. The nag had stopped, and Acilius was rising to a standing position, crossbow in one hand, the other shining a lantern ahead.

Figures, like ghosts in the heavy snow. She counted three, maybe four. Orcs, no. An orc, keeping a man propped up, his eyes almost glowing in the darkness while his companion faced the ground. The lantern shone up against the rocks, and illuminated others. A woman, the shortbow pulled back almost to her chin, aimed at the man with the lantern. She holds her bow like she's had training, Ysorya noted. The woman's arm twitched, keeping the bow at full pull. A young Nord whose blonde hair fell in his (or her) face kept a longer bow at pull as well, and she noticed the child's hand was already shaking.

"You want to turn around the way you came," Acilius shouted at the figures. "There ain't nothing good coming this way after us." Where was Stephan? She asked. She heard Tolfbjorn moving in the back of the cart, glanced back to see him rubbing his shoulder and picking up that ridiculously large warhammer of his.

"You want to give us your horse," the Orc replied, the echo of his voice dulled by the cold winds.

"I do that and none of us have the better of it," replied Acilius. "Behind me is winter itself. The storm that's coming will close the pass, with you in it, horse or no. Think this through: you don't look like a common bandit."

"Behind us is death," the Orc replied. "We're going with winter. And we need your horse."

Ysorya looked up, the woman with the shortbow still held the bowstring to her cheek, bur her companion's hand was shaking, and maybe not entirely with the cold. Tolfbjorn had moved up, unarmored, but holding on to the top part of his warhammer, the weave design glinting in the light of the lantern. He flashed her a look: as if to say, ' _are you ready? I am not ready._ '

She looked back at him. She tried to convey: _we are both as ready as we can be_. She didn't know if he got that, but the Nord nodded and set his jaw, trying to gather his courage.

One misplaced arrow and she was dead. One tiny place her training fails and she would be on the ground or worse. She felt her heart in her throat, and with a hooded gaze, matched eyes with the woman with the shortbow. There was little to the archer's expression but purpose. Ysorya tried to swallow and failed.

"We can come to an understanding," Acilius called out. "We can all find a place to camp for the night, and in the morning. I know people in Markarth, you can find work, and a place to sleep where some Reachmen won't put a dagger in you."

One of the others, a Nord, spat. "I won't be no miner."

"The Silverbloods need more than miners," Acilius replied, with the edge to his throat.

The Orc snarled a tired kind of snarl. "You Imperials, always wanting to talk your way out of things."

"There's a time and a place for everything," Acilius said. Ysorya watched the young Nord up on the rock. Hand shaking as it kept the bow drawn. "And this is a bad time or place for a fight."

"Then give us your horse," the Orc said. "If you don't want a fight, imperial."

"I don't think you want a fight, either," Acilius shouted back. "You have wounded, and look at your-" he raised the crossbow up to point, and an arrow whistled past him. She watched him turn in slow motion to face the young Nord, she saw a momentary look of horror on the boy's face, then back at Acilius to see an arrow from the other set of rocks, let loose by the woman with the shortbow, enter into his chest. Acilius turned back, fired a shot at the orc with the crossbow as another arrow slammed into his body.

She and Tolfbjorn both vaulted off the cart at the same time, while the nag screamed. Her instincts and training took over. She could almost hear the old Dunmer whispering in her ear. _Your life could be over in a minute,_ she heard as she moved across the frozen earth, one blade already out, hand ready to focus magic. _So act like you are already dead._

"Victory!" Tolfbjorn screamed, swinging the warhammer in a wide arc to hit the Orc, the one he carried, and another. "Or Sovngarde!"

She was whispering under her breath, "Boethiah, I offer these to you to sate your hunger" She moved down and in, as she was trained, to get underneath the reach of her opponent. The woman swung her sword as Ysorya ducked, and she looked up to catch a moment of her face, wracked in fear, dried woad cracked against her skin. She plunged the dagger into the woman's gut, putting her shoulder in it, and the two of them tumbled to the ground.

She staggered up as a crossbow bolt flew past her, missing the man coming after her as well. She looked up at the rocks. She couldn't see the woman with the shortbow, but the young Nord was grabbed from behind, and she recognized her brother's dagger in the assailant's hand. _No!_ She wanted to shout. _Target the other!_ But a quick look saw two large men coming down on her. One had a Nord axe and some ill-fitting iron armor on. The other a quick and low blade, longer than her daggers, maybe not as sharp.

"Drop the knife, girl," the Nord in iron said. "We don't wanna hurt you."

The other smiled. "Yet."

 _Be what they want you to be,_ the old Dunmer whispered in her ear, _and they will never look for what you really are._ "P-please," she forced herself to cry out. "Don't hurt me. I'll do whatever you want." She dropped the knife in her hand so it clattered in front of her.

The two approached gingerly, the scene an island of calm inside chaos. Somewhere, that fucking Nord was screaming his fool head off. Behind him Acilius sat on the cart, unmoving. She caught a glint of light, her brother had arrows sticking out of him. Bile and tears rose into her throat. _Calm, calm,_ the Dunmer seemed to whisper. _You are already dead._

"That's it, girl," one of the two said. "Nice and easy." They moved to flank her, as she heard metal crack against the reinforced wood of the Nord's hammer.

Blade in front of him, one of the two men lowered to recover her dagger. "Boethiah," she whispered. "Hear my plea."

"What was that, girl?" asked the one in plate.

And Boethiah answered with a crack of lightning from the darkened sky and immediate, deafening thunder. She twisted, the second blade in her left hand, and moved without conscious purpose. To bring death to them, or her, or all of them. In that moment, she was lost to the action. One day she was nothing. The next moment she may be nothing.

In her mind, the dead Dunmer smiled, and opened his sightless eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

A memory of Ysorya's home city of Wayrest, the last time she saw it – a full thirteen years before, when it was attacked from the sea. Just a flash of images, really: black smoke against the perfect blue sky, the tall, angular towers of the city, her mother, with light brown curls and hard blue eyes, "Just go, to the north gates, and wait for me there." She never saw her again. Wasn't sure the mother of her memory even looked like the mother of her reality. In the rest of her memories her mother and father moved like blurred shadows, almost silent save for their presence. It was the last time she remembered crying. The last time she tasted tears: warm, salty…

...coppery taste of blood in her mouth. The dagger was stuck. She put her arm in it, moving back to her and down, and it came loose from the rib cage of her attacker. Her feet turned like they knew the dance better than her.

She looked at the man she had stabbed. Eyes, blue like her mother's eyes. A face pale and worn from the rigors of life. The beginnings of wrinkles moving along lines cut by fading scars. Stubbled jaw, weak chin but a strong nose. That face, the surprised expression, as if he was thinking, _so this is what death is like_. His lips moved, but no words came out. She didn't know his name. She didn't remember her mother's name. All these dead strangers in her life.

Her ears picked up a sound and she turned. Heel slid slight on wet rocks. The sword, long and straight, swung for her neck. She lifted the dagger up to parry and it caught into the blade itself, nicking the sword. Iron, softer than her dagger's metal. She felt the force of the sword's blow recoil through her arm.

There was rain, rain and snow, but most of the wetness on her was blood, her heart racing too fast to feel if any of it was from her. The man holding the sword was so close all she could smell was his sour breath. His lips closed to hers, eyes half panic and half murder. It felt oddly intimate. A breath away from a first kiss. They struggled, she couldn't pull the dagger out of the man's blade. He pushed down and they tumbled on to the rocks, her crying out as her ankle twisted, knee against stone.

This is where I die, she thought. My first real combat, so many years of training, and this is where I die. "Arkay," the man urged, his voice terrified. " _Please_." Then he pushed down at her with all his strength. She screamed and fought back, her other hand going to his face, fingernail in his eye. She would bite if she could. She had to live. Had to.

Suddenly, the body of the man slammed down on her, pushing the air out of her lungs. Then – a blur at best – a man kicked her attacker off of her. Another crack of lightning and she saw the Nord stand over her. He brought the warhammer down, both hands, and crushed the other man's face. "Ysorya, come on!" he said, turning to offer a hand.

Snow, so much snow now. Big white flurries lumped on her hair, mixed with the matted blood on her cloak. She tried to offer thanks, but was too busy gasping for air. "Come on," he rumbled again. Also terrified. Something had cut him. She could heal that, maybe. Maybe. She'd lost the one dagger still stuck in the sword at her feet. She transferred her left dagger to her right hand.

"Where," she gasped. "D'we go?"

He clenched his jaw. "By Ysmir, I do not know. Anywhere but here. Let's go. Now!"

"But my brother-"

"-Is dead." He set the warhammer to hold himself up. "Probably. We have to go."

Ysorya shook her head. "No. No! He has to be alive. He has to be!" _Who am I anymore,_ she thought, _now that everyone I know is dead?_

"Don't be a fool, girl!" Tolfbjorn grabbed her by the arm, then scanned the way they had come. Downhill. She relaxed against him, heart still racing. With Stephan dead, she felt no hope or home. No divines or daedra could convince her of anything else. "That way," he said, pointing towards an outcropping of rocks. The wind picked up, snow flying everywhere.

The battle may have been over, but the storm had yet to begin. She'd killed a man. That look on his face: she'd see it in her dreams, no doubt. Still she wanted to live. She tried to will her legs to move and follow the Nord, who held on to her arm as if the storm would pull her away otherwise.

She saw a shadowy figure behind the Nord. Her brother survived! She smiled, then resisted Tolfbjorn pulling on him. "Wait!" she cried.

He swung around, "What're you-" he started to say, then she saw the blade in the shadow's hand. The sword, large enough to need two hands, plunged into Tolfbjorn's back and out his chest. Close now, she saw the Orc at the other end. Not her brother, not her brother. Tolfbjorn released her and the hammer at once time, and she fell to her knees as the hammer clattered down the rocks.

The orc put a boot to Tolfbjorn's back to help kick the sword out of him, while she looked on in shock. If only she had realized… she started to think, vaguely, as another woman came out of the blinding snow as well. The Imperial. She saw Ysorya and lightning-fast nocked an arrow at her.

"Livia, no," the Orc said. But he rose up, holding the greatsword to Ysorya, the long blade coated in blood and water.

She held her dagger in one hand, watching the two.

"She killed my husband, Golag." Livia said. "Give me this much."

Golag favored her with a tired look. "Who shot the first shot?"

Livia glanced at Golag while keeping the bow aimed solely at Ysorya's throat. "Odgir. The bow slipped."

Golag looked back at Ysorya, while still addressing Livia. Everything about his posture suggested a soldier, or at least a mercenary. "All this dead, for a mistake. You want to add one more death, Livia?"

Livia snarled. "The bitch killed Sam, Golag!"

Ysorya narrowed her eyes. _You killed my brother_ , she thought. But another figure was coming in through the snow. She couldn't hope to fight all of them. But nothing else lived in Ysorya right then, save for anger. She would die with a smile to put Livia into Skyrim's earth along with her.

She took two steps back on the snowy rocks. Glanced behind her. Her Nord lay sprawled out, his hammer to one side. Face down but still breathing, he struggled to rise. Behind him was the rocks, the cart, the old nag screaming and trying to back away, and the storm, as large and dark and imposing as collective breath of all the Divines.

They were fighting to choose who would die first: the blizzard would surely kill the rest. She kept her hands where they could see her. The Orc and Livia continued the conversation while another of their companions limped up. Tall, slender, awkward. Looked like a Breton, but she couldn't really tell. "It's too late. We've got to get our wounded to shelter."

"Kill the wounded," stated the Orc, flatly. The Man's expression widened, and he took a step back. But he readied his blade.

Ysorya thought of her brother. "Don't you have a healer? Don't you have magic?"

Livia turned, and quick as anything an arrow loosed from the bow. Ysorya's exhausted body seemed to move on its own: She twisted, felt the arrow tear through her and felt a line of cold pain against her chest. But it did not pierce her.

The Orc just looked at her, greatsword resting on his shoulder like he couldn't be bothered to tie it to his back again. "You put a knife in our healer, girl," he said with a twitch to one of the men who attacked her. Sam, presumably.

Stephan, she thought. My brother. You're dead. She fell to her knees, her mind swimming in grief and terror. She could hear the voices of the victors as if from afar. _Do we have to kill them?_ One asked. When they catch up to us, anyone still alive will wish a thousand times for death. _We are giving them mercy._

She could feel warm tears on her face, blotting with large snowflakes. She gasped, and felt the weight of defeat on her. She felt someone standing next to her, then, and opened her tear-blurred eyes to look up. It felt to her the old Dumner stood there, facing downwards, his long white hair flying in the wind. _Is this where your time ends? Is this where you give in?_ It seemed to ask. If the ghost even existed. _Or will you live yet longer? Will our vengeance ever touch the lips of Boethiah herself?_

She took a deep, choking breath. Heard something sick and wet in the winds behind her. A gasp, someone dying. Maybe her brother. And somewhere distant, the wind sounded odd. Like drums. Or chanting. Her face twisted, and she lurched to Tolfbjorn.

The dying Nord had turned to face the sky. When he saw her, he smiled, white teeth lined in red. "Do not cry, my dear," he croaked, his melodic rumble as fond as it was full of blood.

"Tolfbjorn, I'm sorry," she said. She leaned down and kissed him on the lips. The first time she kissed a man. She thought his lips would be warmer.

The kiss seemed to revivify him, but it wouldn't last. "Do not be sorry..my dear," he said, struggling to speak. "Tonight I will dine…. In Sovn-"

She plunged her dagger into his throat. Eyes closed, hunched over. Praying to any Daedra that Livia or the others did not see her. Tolfbjorn's last expression stayed on his face – a look of confused betrayal.

She took a deep breath. She focused.

They always joke a woman from High Reach knows her necromancy. The mana, her spirit, her soul, whatever power she still had within her flowed through her arm and down her left hand into the dead Nord.

Ysorya lowered her head, blood-tangled hair falling in her face. She whispered to the Nord. "Rise, my love." The corpse obediently began to rise. "Rise, and kill the Imperial. Do not stop until they are all dead."

Tolfbjorn's corpse staggered up, holding on to the warhammer. It lurched towards the three standing warriors. Livia turned in confusion and began to fire, while Ysorya ducked low and scrambled down the path to the cart.

She cut the restraints while trying to calm the nag. Wretched Aia, as horses go, was terrified, and Ysorya had no skill with animals. Still, the old mare seemed to know the girl was releasing her. Ysorya cut the remaining bonds and scrambled on the horse, leaving everything behind. The cart began to clatter back down the road, and Ysorya clung for her life.

Ahead, Livia had managed to put three arrows into Tolfbjorn's face and chest before the dead Nord reached her. The Orc clattered to one side with an unlucky hit, Livia backing uphill. Another wide arc sent another of the warriors scrambling away. One dead corpse against seasoned soldiers – it would not last long now that surprise was over. She pushed her heels into the nag's flanks, and the nag screamed as only horses can scream, riding uphill and over the pass.

An arrow flew past her head. She was no longer in control of the horse. She was barely in control of staying on top of the horse. Wretched Aia carried Ysorya over the top of the road, giving Ysorya a facefull of juniper brush that almost knocked her off her back.

It seemed like an hour before the horse felt like it should stop running. Now the snow was piling up, the horse gingerly making her way along the road. The winds had gotten higher, and Ysorya bitterly regretted not grabbing an extra blanket before escaping. The sounds of the winds kept the same atonal howl, but she kept hearing what she was sure was almost a chant, a weird keening sound that matched nothing she had heard before.

Cresting a hill, she caught sight of what had been chasing the soldiers all along.

The Dragon loomed above the road, its two lower claws holding on to the rocks above the pass. It had a slate-blue color, with eyes that seemed to glow a yellow-red light. The head of the thing was easily the size of the tallest man she had ever seen. An army could fight this thing and lose.

She had caught it eating, the legs of some human disappearing in its maw as it swallowed.

The horse under her froze, as if it had finally crossed beyond the limits of what the poor old beast could think. She scanned under the dragon, flames flickering in the snow and wind that continued to buffet the area. She caught a burning corpse. Could not tell if it was Reachmen or Nord. Was unsure it mattered. She swallowed, and looked at the little dagger in her hand, then up at the dragon. She had skated one death only to fall into another. Such was the irony of her life, she thought, bitterly.

But the dragon did not attack. It spoke in words that shuddered both her and the mountains themselves. Then spoke again in words she could understand:

"Speak," it said to her, "if you have aught to say worth the listening."


End file.
